A Better Mousetrap
by Twinings
Summary: There's facing your fear,' she said, 'and then there's tempting fate.'
1. Day 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Scarecrow. Amazing._

_This story is part of the CATverse. (www. freewebs. com/ catverse) It follows the CATfight story arc, and comes after the girls' return to their Squishykins, but before anyone does any real sharing about what they've been up to. Expect some eggshell-walking. But the most important thing to know is that this is a direct sequel to BiteMeTechie's "Tourist Trap."_

_And I'd like to extend my apologies for my long absence from writing. _IT WON'T HAPPEN AGAIN.

* * *

Day 1:

I hate writing in diaries. Hate it, hate it, hate it. But my therapist says it's good for me because I have to face my fears and all that, which is also why I'm in Gotham after successfully avoiding it for all these years and I really don't want to be here, I don't, I don't. I hate this place. I mean, sure, it's beautiful, but I can't even look at the architecture anymore, I can't enjoy it. I don't want to be here. I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home.

Okay. Breathing. Breathing just fine. I'm okay. I'm not having a panic attack. I'm sitting by an open window. This room has two exits. I'm going to be just fine.

I am NOT fine.

It was bad enough back in Iowa, when just about anything could set me off but at least I could look around and see that I was home, I still had the big blue sky and the wide open spaces and my comfy little house that was bigger on the inside than the outside. I was home and I could calm myself down most of the time, and if not there was always Mom, and then Peter, and I miss him so much. I wish he could have come with me. I think I could survive Gotham if he were with me. Of course he had to work, he always has to work, but I wish he could have come. Our anniversary is coming up so soon, and I haven't told him about the baby yet. I had planned to tell him when he took me to dinner, I guess I still will, and I know he'll be happy. He wouldn't have let me come here alone if he had known I was pregnant. I shouldn't have come.

If I go home right now, will it really make any difference? I mean, I've faced my fear. I came here. And look, ma, no Scary villains chasing after me in the night although it hasn't actually been night yet but still, I'm here and everything's fine. Right?

Last time I was here I was stupid, but this time I'll do better. If I stay. I mean, there's no reason why I should stay the whole three days. Why should I? There's facing your fear and then there's tempting fate.

I don't want to see him again, okay? Him or the girls who worked for him. I don't know why Dr. Wyndham should think there's anything wrong with that. It's not like I'm crazy for wanting to stay away from him. I would be crazy if I thought it would be a good idea to seek him out. I'M NOT CRAZY. I'm just high-strung. And I have a good reason, so I don't know why everyone thinks there's something wrong with me.

Isn't it just barely possible that someone could live through a traumatic event and be affected by it without automatically turning out to be some kind of nutcase?

I hate writing in diaries.


	2. Day 2

Day 2:

I still hate writing in diaries and I hate Gotham and I want to go home. That was the longest, most sleepless night I've ever spent. I feel like I've been run over by a truck, and I still can't help looking over my shoulder so often I'm practically a human whirlwind. I don't want to be here. It is not safe. This is not therapeutic. I just want to go home to my husband and my parents and agonize over the first draft of my term paper and pretend there's no such place as Gotham and no such person as you-know-who. 

On the other hand, I made it through the night. That's got to be something, right?

Maybe…maybe I can actually go outside. I wouldn't have to go far. There are shops right across the street from the hotel. I could get Dr. Wyndham a present and really prove myself, right? And I'll get something for Peter. He's always wanted to see Gotham. Maybe I'll even get something for Lucy/Ricky.

Oh, wow. I never realized before that I was naming the baby after the Ricardos. Maybe I do need to get out more.

That's it. I'm going outside.

Soon.


	3. Day 3

_Author's note: It has recently come to my attention that I forgot to finish posting this. Sorry!!_

* * *

Day 3:

I actually slept last night. I can't believe it! I'm here in Gotham and nothing bad is happening to me. I'm not dead. I haven't seen any you-know-whats. I've spent most of this time even breathing normally. I'm okay! I'm really okay. Except for the fact that I'm in tears over the fact that I'm okay. That's progress, anyway. 

I got the perfect presents for Peter and my shrink, and I found something for Mom, too. But nothing for the baby. I _have_ to get something for the baby. He/she should know how important this is to his/her mommy. I mean, wow, if I can get outside and go to school plays and little league games, I'll be a regular mom. I'll be good. I really want my kid to be proud of me. I guess that's why I finally gave in.

I think I'll go outside again. There was the cutest little baby store down the street. Maybe I'll get a cuddly Batman pillow. That would be fun.


	4. Epilogue

Epilogue:

"Her therapist is a real idiot, huh?" the Captain said cheerfully. Jonathan didn't look up from his notes. "I mean, it's not like she had an irrational phobia. She was kidnapped and tortured, psychologically, and had every reason to believe it would progress to the physical, as well. She was afraid for a damn good reason, wasn't she, and that asshole sent her back to let it happen all over again. You should have seen her face when she recognized me in the store. I'm surprised she didn't put up more of a fight."

"Mmm," he grunted. Yes, she had done a good job bringing back a former subject for a comparison test, and as a reward for her hard work (as well as, he grudgingly admitted to himself, because he needed the extra muscle until he was in a better state of health) he had decided not to chase her out of the lab when she offered to help. But this was the last time he would let her chug Mountain Dew in his presence. It was the only caffeinated beverage that really affected her, transforming the relatively taciturn woman into a blithering idiot.

And a contortionist, but that was nothing new for his girls. At the moment, she was perched on a chair that was tilted at a precarious angle on one leg, her hair brushing the floor, blood rushing to her face, a foot planted against the wall for balance. It must have been hell on her abdominal muscles, but she was too engrossed in the journal to care.

"Look at all this nervous energy, and the way she constantly has to reassure herself that things are normal. You broke her, sir! She was getting better, but you _really_ broke her brain before." She pushed off, arms windmilling as she balanced on the chair's one leg for a moment before coming to rest against the wall again.

"Mmm-hmm." It wasn't that he wasn't interested in what she had to say. The girl was a born linguist; he was sure she could analyze the panicked scribblings rather well, and maybe even offer some insight that might not have occurred to him. But until she adjusted to the caffeine, she wasn't likely to say anything that made much real sense to anyone other than herself.

That was what he really hated about the girls. They were always eager to help, and they often had genuinely useful skills, but they were too unpredictable to ever be relied upon. They could be model assistants one minute, raving lunatics the next. They could focus on a project with single-minded determination until it was run into the ground, or they could suddenly develop the attention spans of a swarm of gnats. It was like living with three very affectionate Jokers who could never decide on the right balance between mad genius and crazy clown.

"Squishy!" The chair toppled over. He glared at the woman now sprawled out on the floor. She stared back, wide brown eyes brimming with sudden tears.

"If you're going to call me that, I'm going to have to insist that you go back upstairs," he said firmly, refusing to be taken in by the girl's emotional about-face.

"Have you _read_ this?" she wailed.

"Yes."

"But—she was _pregnant_!"

"Yes, she was," Jonathan agreed. He had expected a reaction when she found out, but he hadn't expected her to whine at him like a kid with a flattened puppy.

"But, Squishy, pregnant! With a baby!"

"I didn't know that when you brought her here," he reminded her.

"But she was _pregnant!_"

"Yes, pregnant, Captain. We just scared a pregnant woman to death. I know you don't like it, I know you have a weakness for babies, but this was unavoidable. It's not as if you can always tell that sort of thing just by looking. Now, go upstairs and have a cup of tea if you're just going to get hysterical about this."

"I'm not hysterical, you fucking asshole!" She threw the diary at him. "_I am perfectly fucking calm_!"

Thoroughly exasperated, Jonathan wheeled himself across the room and hauled his minion to her feet.

"That's enough out of you, young—" No, he was _not_ going to give her a talking-to like a stern father. "You moron," he amended. "I will not have you throwing things in my lab." She wrenched her arm out of his grip.

"**_Baby_**! I killed a baby! I—I—h-helped you kill—k-kill an unborn child!"

"So what?" he snapped. So she liked babies. There was no reason to get _this_ upset about it. "What's the difference between killing it now and killing it twenty years from now?"

"It's—you—you're a _horrible_ man! I can't—I ki—I—can't—kill—" She was gasping for breath, swaying as if she were about to faint. He reached down, picked up her glass of Mountain Dew—did her the scant courtesy of making sure it wasn't a vial of hydrochloric acid—and threw it in her face. "I—I'm _wet_!" she sputtered, her voice rising in pitch.

"Captain, get ahold of yourself." He slapped her.

"I—you _slapped_ me and I'm _wet_ and I _killed a baby_!"

"Calm down! It isn't that important!"

"I—I—I—" She launched herself at him, landing in his lap with a solid thump that made him grit his teeth against the unintended pain, and let loose a stormy stream of tears into his shirt. "I'm—" (sob) "—t-terrible—" (sob) "—pro-choice!"

Oh, was _that_ all she was worried about? A presumed betrayal of her personal politics? She thought she couldn't feel bad about killing an unborn child without being a traitor to the liberal views she held so proudly. Well, if there was one thing he knew, it was that rational conclusions, even long-held ones, tended to die a gory death in the face of strong emotion.

He felt he really ought to say something before she soaked him right through. But what could possibly get her to stop crying? Would she feel better if she could get back to her own way of thinking? Should he offer to take her out for an abortion? And ice cream?

That thought reminded him of all the times he had found her upside down in her favorite armchair, reading _Gone With the Wind_. He patted her shoulder and spoke without thinking.

"Cheer up, Captain. Maybe you'll have a miscarriage."

She wailed loudly and clung to him harder. All right, so he was no Clark Gable.

It was quite a relief for once when the door opened and Al stuck her head into the lab.

"Captain? Techie's in the—Captain! Squishykins! What happened? Jonathan Crane, did you gas her again? I ought to tan your hide, boy!" She stomped down the stairs, one fist threateningly raised. "You can't just turn to the fear toxin every time someone pisses you off!"

"I didn't. She's just upset because the last test subject was expecting." The Captain wailed like a madwoman and slid off his lap to the floor between his legs, now clinging to his pants.

"Expecting what?" Al said blankly. Jonathan was far too busy to enlighten her, trying to squirm away from the teary face that could most charitably said to be pressed against his inner thigh.

"Baby," the Captain wailed. Al's eyes went wide.

"_What_?" She seized her friend and dragged her toward the stairs. "Come on, Captain. Techie needs you." The look she gave Jonathan was pure cobalt malevolence. "Someone has something to tell you, _Scarecrow_, but I think it's going to have to wait." When Al couldn't get the Captain to walk up the stairs, she picked her up and carried her like a bride on her wedding night. Jonathan watched them go, more impressed with Al's upper body strength than anything else.

_What...what was that all about?_


End file.
